Spirit
by SilverCascade
Summary: Angel de la Muerte has locked himself away from the world, unhappy with the boss' final decision. She decides the time has come to tame the beast. Set after the 'Save Shaundi' ending. One shot.


**A/N:** _Hello there! __This fic is the one that was supposed to go up after H4CK3D - Fool's Gold was written on a whim! _We're back to my female boss again! [for now, at least] I've been listening to 'A Demon's Fate' by Within Temptation all the way through writing/editing this, so I credit it as inspiration here :)  
-

**From the ashes of hate,  
****It's a cruel demon's fate,  
****On the wings of darkness  
****He's returned to stay,  
There will be no escape  
****'Cause he's fallen far from grace...  
****~A Demon's Fate, Within Temptation**

"Everyone's doing alright," she sighed aloud, thinking to her fearless comrades. It had been just over two weeks since the official fall of the Syndicate – Loren had been literally crushed, Miller had been scared out of town and unfortunately, Killbane had managed to escape. Shaundi, Viola and even Burt Reynolds were safe thanks to the boss' quick decision. _Though it still isn't good enough._

She diverted her thoughts to her circle of friends. The lieutenant had returned from Bangkok a few days ago from shooting the next episode of _'I Wanna Sleep With Shaundi'_. Viola had been content managing the brothels in Steelport, working alongside the Saints' pimp rather than against him. Safeword had turned into a great business, and the duo managed it smoothly, raking in the cash.

_It had to be Kiki he fucked,_ the boss concluded. _Viola wouldn't hold her tongue about that shit._

Kinzie was satisfied with her hacking, frequently stealing from the local banks without them so much as spotting a dip in their finances. Thankfully, she left her 'inner sanctum' some more, venturing out to buy new tech rather than ordering it online. She'd even had pancakes in the boss' company occasionally, and the woman was pleased with the techie's progress.

Pierce and Oleg had formed an temporary alliance to promote the new merchandise for _'Gangstas in Space'_, going over the top - bobble heads, posters, life-size cardboard cut-outs, replicas of Pierce's cap and even imprints of Oleg's huge hands…The boss gave the fans what they wanted, no matter how absurd the request.

Everyone seemed to be doing okay. Everyone except Angel de la Muerte.

The boss' heart sank as she thought of the man's voice, torn and defeated when he'd called.

_"Killbane's planning on leaving Steelport!" He barked, voice distorted though the damaged phone, but she caught every word as she slammed her fingers on the silver triggers again, bullet catching the shoulder of a STAG recruit._

_"You're kidding me!" she cried, exasperated._

_"Get to the airport. There isn't much time!" Angel sounded desperate; she knew he wanted this. But he needed to listen to her._

_"Angel-"_

_"No! I can't let him win." His voice cracked as he shouted. "We can't let him win!" The phone line went dead, only to be replaced by the call that would make all the difference._

She pictured his expression, hatred building for the man who did this to her ally. Killbane shouldn't have gotten away…if mercy existed, Killbane _wouldn't_ have gotten away. The boss did what she had to do, and wished Angel wouldn't resent her for making the right choice. Her crew was safe and that mattered the most, she told herself resolutely. Though deep in her heart, she knew it wasn't the only thing that mattered.

The arduous man had not left his gym since the fateful day. The boss had sent decorators around as a means of cheering him up, but they had returned black and blue, waving legal files at her, threatening to sue. Angel was unstable, and although she thought it best to leave him alone, perhaps it was time to disarm the bomb he had become.

The boss had moved over each of the major deaths in her life, avenging them and moving swiftly forward, fearing to dwell on them in case they weakened her. Angel had to do the same; he had to move on or he'd never be okay. He should have gotten over everything by now.

Four weeks was long enough.  
-

"Shaundi?" The boss entered the bar, glancing around for the slender girl.

The stench of alcohol hung heavy in the smoke - there was barely any air in the sleaze-ridden building. Hoes loitered provocatively around the tables and ends of the room, hoping to score some late afternoon customers; they knew their market well enough to pinpoint crucial times where their services would be required, and the Monday blues were catching up to the horny businessmen. The bartender was fixated on his job, pouring beer after beer and eavesdropping on the occasional conversation.

"Over here," she called, gesturing from the pool table. She leaned, curvy frame thrusting out in the right places to seduce, and took another shot, the white ball clinking the black eight into the pocket. The men around her gasped with desire; she was beautiful _and_ talented. She placed the long cue against the table as the boss wandered over. "Good game, guys."

"Play us again," they pleaded, handing over their lost bets. "One more game."

"Duty calls," she said, shrugging.

"Taking bets are we, Shaundi?" the boss asked, lifting an eyebrow. "I thought we had enough cash."

"Doesn't hurt to massage the ego once in a while," she shrugged. "Anyway, what did you need, boss?"

"Hear me out before you say anything." The woman pulled up a chair and cracked open a drink, chugging openly. "I need advice."

Shaundi looked at her, uncertain. "What do I know that you don't? Isn't your answer to everything an explosion?"

"Not this time. I'm going to see Angel, but he won't let anyone in. I'm worried."

"Blow the door down. While you're there, blow the whole fucking place up!" She clutched the base of her glass, swigging the warm whiskey.

The boss sighed. "I know you're mad at him, but I chose you, remember?"

"He wanted you to leave us to die!" she exclaimed. "Why do you give a shit about Angel, if you _chose_ _me_?"

"You're still my crew. I gotta make sure you're all in top form in case more shit goes down."

"You didn't care this much when Johnny died," Shaundi scowled.

"Fuck_ that_," she cried, standing up, defiant. "Nobody was happy about losing Gat, especially not me." Her cat-like eyes narrowed, a terrifying rage growing behind them. The bottle smashed to the floor; she tossed her dark mane and stormed out.

"Boss!" Shaundi ran after her.

"What?" The leader of the Saints turned to stare at the lieutenant who had hurt her. Gat had been her friend from the goddamn beginning; the only one who had stuck with her...His death had been abrupt, so unreal. It didn't feel possible at all.

"I'm sorry. I just-"

She sighed. "We all took it hard, girl. We all miss him."

Shaundi nodded. "Try pizza. It's a good excuse." The boss shrugged, hopping into glossy black _Vortex_ and speeding off.  
-

After a stop at Mario's Meat&Balls, the finest Italian restaurant the city had to offer, and a quick dodge of the cops, the sleek stature of the boss hovered outside Angel's Casino. _I miss Freckle Bitch's. Shit just looked more appetizing there, _she frowned, looking down at the soggy disc covered in slimy cold meat. She glanced up; her chest ached a little as her gaze settled on the sign: 'De La Muerte Gym, closed for business.'

Killbane had done this.

Normally, she would have kicked the door down, but guilt prevented the destruction of even more of Angel's property, his soul already being in pieces because of her.

She knocked slowly, not expecting any signs of life. The door creaked open and a wall of the musty smell waved out. A sliver of light protruded the grey darkness, shutters leaking in the little sun there was. The wallpaper was scrawled with graffiti, and the grime settled into the most intimate areas of the crib. Particles of dust danced across the room, illuminated by the ethereal glow. The hue of murkiness enveloped the area, and torn papers lay scattered across the floor.

"Angel?" she called, tiptoeing up the stairs, the door slamming shut and taking the chink of light with it. The gloom descended. "Angel?" she called again, voice echoing off of the barren room. The stairs groaned as the woman headed up. Torn posters, worn away over time, still hung proudly, and the further in she ventured, the more she realised the extent of destruction of Angel's heart. The neglect the dilapidated gym had suffered was beyond anything she had seen before.

Trudging through the dirty floor, she counted around thirty-seven scrabbles as she entered the main room, and pairs of beady eyes glared at her through the crevices in the wall. _Rats? He can't even get rid of rats?_ The boss sidestepped a small puddle of water, a shot of the wetness from the leaky roof almost catching her in the eye. It was the only source of real sun; a small but concentrated pool of light glittered amongst the darkness.

Sticking close to the walls, she noted their texture, crumbling, flaking away. Occasionally, she'd stumble across a large crack or a crushed hole where the wall had been punched in a vehemence of anger much like her own. She kicked a fallen slot machine out of her way, a light clink echoing through the air as the coins hit each other, wincing as hundreds of bug carcasses poured out, the cockroach shells shiny.

The main part of the gym, the part holding the rotted statues and the empty ring, was melancholy. The fearsome Angel of Death loomed majestic over the wrecked gym, a horrific symbol of how and why one of the greatest names in wrestling had fallen. The light reflected off the rock; a cold comparison to the man it represented, the inner and outer toughness and sheer determination set in stone. It served as a reminder of the status the man she searched for once held. He had been divinity; feared throughout his entire domain. But the heavens did not offer him shelter as he fell, and he had been forced to seek solace in the darkest corners of the city.

The casino tables were covered in thick layers of dust, turning the once vivid green into a dull smoky grey. The mounds of colourful betting chips had faded down the colour palette from crimson and teal to a dull dusky rose and murky navy. The woodworm-infested chairs were disintegrating, and some parts were splintered as if hit in a burst of rage, chunks all over the floor.

_I thought this place was a shithole before,_ she grimaced as she kicked another slot machine over, more beetle shells spilling out. _But fuck, it's gone downhill. _The feeling of apprehension grew in the boss' stomach. She feared something awful had happened to the ex-Luchador, quickening her pace.

_He's desperate but he wouldn't...no. No. He wouldn't!_ She frowned as the terrible thought crossed her mind. She had lost many friends in this occupation, but none out of suicide. Since the passing of Johnny, she vowed no one else would fall because of her. Steeling her thoughts, the calm settled - no Saint was killing himself on her watch.

The boss sidestepped broken glass that had split from the large chandeliers, which swung dangerously from the weak ceiling. Lamps and lights had shattered on impact with the floor, thrown there in outrage. The glass was striking when crushed; the sun cracked through it, creating miniature light shows on the opposite wall.

There was a glow from behind one of the glass doors; she went in. The first room was a little better in condition; it was more isolated, the lights actually worked. A smaller bronze statue, an exact replica of the larger one outside, greeted her. This Angel of Death was smaller, though it still held the same expression of contempt. It was missing a leg too, a feature the boss failed to notice in the other model. The woman recognised it as one of the many found in the back rooms of Three Count - Killbane had banished them all there, the metal too valuable to simply throw out. Angel must have salvaged this one before Eddie took over - this one looked older, more worn. It must have lost its leg during the escapade, she reasoned, moving forward.

On the scarred walls hung posters curling at the edges, the images fading away, contrary to the memories they contained. The boss noted many of them were of Killbane, his dominating stance a malicious contrast of the fallen man she sought. The face had been scratched, furiously cut at with what looked like a knife. She leaned in and examined the extent of the damage - the weapon had gouged marks in the solid wall.

_Angel's real mad._

Going a little further, she saw more angrily altered posters of the man, and one startled her. The Walking Apocalypse's title had been scribbled out and the word 'REVENGE' was etched over it in harsh strokes. Another seemed more recent; a Planet Saints promo, Pierce and Shaundi's faces aggressively defaced with the phrase 'THERE IS NO JUSTICE' scrawled across the entire thing. Angel was in a bad way. The woman knew she had to fix it, and soon.

The corridor was short, and a large stack of bottles in crates stood outside a door. _How much has he been drinking?_ Some were empty, some full, and they were messily strewn across the landing. The boss turned her attention to the door; a familiar symbol of pure gold looked back her; the skull's eyes, glistening rubies staring straight into her mind.

"Angel, I know you're here! Show yourself." She barged into his room, a newfound determination in her step. Striding in, she squinted, eyes taking time to settle.

A figure hunched over a punching bag, pounding furiously. The posture was crooked, as if he had been doing the same activity for days upon days, and the deep violet hoodie he wore was stained. Angel de la Muerte turned to face the intruder; his hollow, bloodshot eyes gazing lifelessly back into hers. He stepped to the left, the punch bag gradually swinging to a stop. Dark stubble defined his rugged face; the hood of his sweatshirt up, casting an added shadow over his complexion, yet when he pulled it down, the ashiness remained. He stared intently at her, eyes mimicking the effect of the rubies, boring into her soul.

Unable to look Angel in the eye, she glanced at the bag, expecting the former gang leader's ominous face to greet her. Raven locks, long dark lashes and a candy pink pout was what she saw.

The boss' eyes grew large as she realised the picture taped onto the punching bag was hers. Killbane's eye poked out from behind her head, twinkling manically, knowing his old friend now hated her more than he hated the once-great leader of the Luchadores.

"What are you doing here?" his voice sounded strained, like speech was not a luxury he had indulged in for a long time.

"I came to see how you were." He glanced down at her hands as she spoke. "And I bought pizza."

"You came to check up on me." There was a pause. The usually animated woman didn't know what to say.

"Somebody had to," she said gently. "We haven't heard from you since the shit with-"

"Don't even say it." He turned away and went to punch the bag again. "If that's why you came, you can leave."

"I was gonna say STAG," she shrugged. "But okay."

"STAG?"

"They went easy on us 'cause we saved that hideous fucking statue."

"Right." He continued to hit the bag, disinterested.

She stepped in between the man's fist and the bag, grabbing his curled hand in her own, inches from her head. "We need to talk."

"What good will that do?"

"I know you're mad."

"And?"

"You're angry 'cause Killbane got away." Angel's face twisted at the mention of his old partner's name. Emotion, sheer odium built up over time rippled through his face and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to keep what little self-control he had left. He channelled anger to his fists, clenching them hard, knuckles turning white. He turned away from the source of his fury and began walking. "The Saints are looking for him. Everyone's on his back, and there's only so far he can run before we get him," she called.

He froze, turned back around until he was centimetres from her face. She could smell the drink on his breath.

"And that makes it all okay? Killbane won!"

"Back the fuck up, Angel!" The boss grew frustrated. She had taken time out of her day to see him. She had worried about him, and he didn't even try to understand. "I'm doing all I can."

"No! You had your chance, and you blew it. He's gone."

"You wanted me to give up my girls for that madman? How fucking selfish-"

"Don't talk to me about selfish!" he defended, rage written across his features. "You've sacrificed your friends before, just to get what you wanted. Why stop for Killbane?" His eyes misted as he thought back to the day he first craved revenge. The boss had made him think he could have had it, and then dropped him when it suited her.

"I learnt my lesson, Angel," she said, looking away. "Lin, Carlos... Johnny was the last straw. Nobody else will go down because of me. Not even you."

"Stop pretending you came here for me. You came to ease your own guilt." He stared hard at her face as she reminisced. "You made the wrong choice and you know it."

She paused a second too long before answering. "Bullshit. I wish I could have crushed Killbane with my own hands, but the crew comes first." He shook his head in disbelief and turned away. "And I came here because I was worried. We were all wondering what the hell happened to you."

"You can tell the Saints I'm fine. Now get the hell out of my gym."

"Why aren't you happy? Killbane's gone. We took out the whole fucking Syndicate and the city is ours. You should be celebrating alongside us!"

"Do you really think that's what I cared about? The city?" He sank into the worn bed. It let out a groan, sinking slightly under his muscular weight. "Do you know how much shame I had to face when I was unmasked? It's the ultimate dishonour a Luchador can feel and it was a blow dealt by my best friend!" His head sank into his hands. "Vengeance. It's all I wanted."

"Pull yourself together. This shit always gets worse before it gets better."

"You don't care," he spat. "You don't care about anyone but yourself."

The boss didn't get angry. She should have, hell, she _wanted_ to, but remained calm. "I care about all of you more than you think. Why else would I go for Shaundi?"

"You don't care about me, about the past."

"Don't gimme shit. I drove with a tiger in my car for you. A _fucking_ tiger!"

"It was for your benefit!"

"And you were probably laughing your ass off. Where did you get a tiger in Steelport, anyway?"

"That isn't the problem."

"No, you are." She went to the door, shaking her head in disdain. _This whole visit was so fucking stupid. _The boss had tried, and Angel just didn't get it.

He glanced up and saw the back of the shapely woman. "Don't leave!" he said, glaring at her.

"I thought you wanted me to go?" she growled. A tense pause descended. Seconds ticked past.

"You…you did the right thing. I can't blame you for being a good leader." He spoke with an unnatural sluggishness, choking out the words like they were razor blades, cutting the inside of his throat as he brought them up.

"I know I'm good," she said, flippantly. "But you don't realise what you have, how lucky you are."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're so fucking sucked in by revenge you haven't even noticed the fact you got your career back! Killbane has nothing anymore, and because you're with the Saints, the world is at your fingertips. Angel de la Muerte is back!"

"I don't want this sham of a career back!" he cried. "I want to feel Eddie's neck snap in my hands! I want justice! I want-"

"You're acting like a spoilt kid!" She cocked the black Kobra, having had enough. "Stop talking, before I make you stop!" Angel fell silent, refusing to acknowledge the woman who had denied him his every right.

"I can't live like this anymore," he murmured. "You said I could have him! You said he would fall at my hands-"

"He fell." Her voice grew sharp. "I brought you Killbane's mask; you got what you wanted."

"You didn't bring me the body you promised. You let him get away!"

"Don't do this," she murmured suddenly, turning the gun away. "Don't make me feel worse than I already do."

"What?" He simply stared.

"Nothing, just-"

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing. I…I felt bad," she admitted. "Everyone is happy but you're..."

"This." He gestured to himself, his face betraying the hurt he felt. He hated himself, he truly did. Angel de la Muerte had been a feared name in the ring, but outside the battleground the wrestlers had greeted each other like long lost friends. He sighed, thinking back to how Eddie had fit the bill, before he lost it. All because of envy. Angel de la Muerte...he had once been proud to own the name, and now he didn't know who he was anymore. He didn't know who he wanted to be, either. He only wanted to be free of the torment. Killbane's death would have brought him serenity, he just knew it, and he wouldn't even get that. "Why me?" he whispered aloud.

"Shit happens, Angel," the boss said. "Shit happens to the best of us. But I know I made the right choice. Shaundi, Viola, the mayor...they'd all be dead if I went after Killbane."

"I know. But so would he." Angel gazed into the mirror, abhorrence evident in his eyes. _But for whom?_ he wondered. _Who do I hate more? This woman, Eddie, or myself?_

"You would kill them all for revenge?" she glowered at him, venomous disgust rising again, unable to believe his fixation. These people he so casually dismissed were her friends, and he was willing to sacrifice them for his vendetta! "You bastard!" She couldn't be patient anymore.

"Listen to me…" Hopelessness entered his tone. "It's not what I meant, but…there was no other way, was there?"

"You remind me of Killbane." She aimed her words to hurt.

"You did not just say that-" He trembled with loathing, a burning hate flourishing in his soul. "You're the one who's obsessed with your legacy, willing to kill and butcher anyone in your way! _You're_ the mirror to him! _You're_ the one just like Eddie!"

"You don't get it – you and Killbane started in the same place, and now you think you're a fucking martyr because of one bad thing he did to you. You want to kill him, even though he spared you, and could have easily snapped your neck if he wanted. You're just as bad as him; in fact, you're worse, because you're pretending to be better."

Angel's eyes widened, each word slashing through him like a dagger. She was right, and he didn't want to believe it…he looked into the mirror across the room and saw not himself, but his reviled partner. "No, it isn't true!"

The boss suddenly felt guilty; he didn't need this, especially not from her. Compassion was an emotion she struggled to deal with, and she was surprised to find herself sitting beside him, arm clasping his shoulder, a softness she didn't know she possessed shining through.

"Angel, I-"

"Get the hell off me, you bitch." Every word was like ice, slicing open her good intentions, revealing her dark core. Something inside her snapped.

"Listen to me, you cowardly fuck-"

The boss was cut off by the rough man's mouth on hers. His calloused palms cupped her chin and smashed his lips against hers, groaning. The boss' eyes widened and she wrenched his hands off her face.

"Angel, what the fuck was that?" she yelled, darting to her feet, knuckles smoothing out the imprints of his rough fingers on her jaw line. He didn't answer but gloom settled on his eyes, downcast, and his breathing turned overwrought. He stood up and turned to venture further into the building, to a spot where he truly was a recluse, suddenly stopping to face the startled woman.

"I never expected you to choose Killbane over your girls. You made the right decision."

"Then why-"

"I'm bitter. Killbane ruined me in more ways than one, and his twisted legacy lives on inside me," he growled. "Revenge has turned me into this monster."

"Glad you see it my way," she said, unsure of what to do next, incapable of a real reaction to the admittance. The boss didn't know how to feel, torn apart by instinct and reason. Angel de la Muerte had just kissed her, and all she could do was stand there, gaping like a goldfish. "But it doesn't explain what you just did."

"Not everything needs a reason."

"This fucking well does!"

"You're right."

"I know."

"No, I mean about everything. You taught me a mask doesn't make a hero, but a hero makes his mask. You gave me hope, picked me up off the floor..." His voice cracked. "I lived through two years of hatred before you, two years of hell. Do you know how it feels to lose everything you ever worked for because somebody was _jealous_?"

The boss' mind drifted back to Julius' death, which the fucker deserved, Dex's unpunished betrayal, and the feeling surged back. Satisfaction came first, then pain of the losses she suffered. Anger, burning loathing. For a moment, she knew exactly how Angel felt when Killbane got away.

"Yes. I know." She stroked his fine stubble with her index finger, thrusting his chin up to gaze at his dejected face. "I know how it feels."

"You were _my_ angel in a purple halo," he smiled wanly, thinking back to the day this tall woman strutted into his life. She had brought a powerful Russian giant and a melodic pimp in a gimp suit. "I knew taking down those Luchadors alongside you was the start of something big, and I was right. I just didn't think it would end the way it did."

"We'll find him. You know we will." The words she spoke had no effect. He looked defeated, truly defeated by the facts lying before him. Revenge had given him hope. But even that had been taken away.

Angel still couldn't bring himself to hate her. He couldn't justify what he had done, he couldn't say what compelled him to do it, and he only knew that he had done it on impulse. He had always thought she was beautiful, but it had never occurred to him to act on it. Of course, the way she had hurriedly peeled them apart showed exactly how she felt. There was no emotion in her heart; she felt nothing for him, and now he knew. His shoulders dropped and he stared at the floor, lost in the dangerous dungeons of his mind.

_The tension needed breaking anyway,_ the boss thought, filling her mind with thoughts of the kiss so she wouldn't have to look at him. _And it hadn't felt bad, exactly._

She wandered the room, heading towards a splash of colour; she spotted the discarded symbol of Angel's pride in the trashcan.

"You tossed your mask!"

"I'm not the man I once was. I thought I had earned back my mask by humiliating Killbane and taking the city, but it feels wrong. I'm a fake."

"You're not a fake! Do you know how many calls we get at the office asking for you? The press, the tournaments; they want you for events, matches, interviews..." Angel didn't seem impressed. "If you really want it, I can even get you a line of clothes. Pierce and Shaundi have lines at Planet Saints...maybe Leather and Lace?" she winked.

"It isn't funny."

She didn't reply; her efforts to lighten the mood hadn't worked. Her gaze lingered on the intricate mask. The vivid violet against the glimmering gold captured a certain beauty and held the true spirit of the Luchador. Angel's mask was exquisite; it held an air of dignity now lost in the man but still evident in the mask. She thought to Killbane's mask, the darkness emanating from the bright colours; a mask really did reflect its Luchador. Her fingers ran along the vinyl, the silk edging providing a smooth contrast. Flipping it inside out, she saw the seams had been worn, sewn and re-sewn to fix patches.

Angel saw her puzzled look. "In a match, it is legal to tear the mask of a Luchador, so long as it is not completely removed, which is illegal, and the offending wrestler is then disqualified unless it's a damn special circumstance."

"But Killbane-"

"They called it a legal unmasking," he growled, the hate pumping through his heart. "It was a move made in public interest. I guess if the crowd roar hard enough, anything goes."

"You could have just gotten a new one, you know."

"That's not how it works. You and I, we tried to earn it back, but it..."

"We get the fucking thing, and you throw it out? Why did you bother repairing it all those times if you were just gonna toss it when shit got tough?"

"You don't understand. I loved my mask; I was it, and it was me." She stared at him; the mask wasn't the only thing that had been torn, but a rip in the soul couldn't be sewn up as easily.

The boss stepped forward and begun curling the mask over the former Luchador's head. He didn't fight it, just assisted her, the vinyl curving across the lines of his face. His hand brushed hers for longer than necessary when they met, and he slowly moved it past; he was ice cold and she was the warmth that melted him. Angel breathed it in, the scent of the rubber, and sighed. It was the aroma of victory, of defeat, of honour. The woman stepped back to admire her work.

"You look good," she said, nonchalant. "Really good. You ought to wear it out more."

"It isn't worn to look good, but to channel the spirit of the Lucha Libre battle, to symbolise hope-"

"Yeah, sure."

"Must you ruin everything with cynicism?" She shrugged in response.

The boss admired Angel's guts; his sheer endurance in what for anyone else would have been certain defeat. His ability to rise despite the hardships was impressive, and was a lot like her talent, what with surviving explosions. His muscles helped too, and she liked her men rough; she wasn't into any of Shaundi's pretty-boys.

Suddenly the boss leaned over and wrapped her arms around Angel de la Muerte, performing an action so rare that the likes of Johnny Gat had once deemed it extinct. She gently placed her head on his shoulder and looked up at his expressionless face staring her down as she hugged him. His hands were awkwardly clasped under her arms, and he pushed her away.

"Don't. Please, just go." Angel's voice tore. He couldn't bear it any more. Not this, not anything...and now the vindictive woman taunted him. He balled his fists, wanting her to leave before he did something he would regret. Tension hovered around the glowering duo.

The boss sighed and cracked her knuckles, polished nails glittering amethyst in the streaky sunlight. "I didn't want to have to do this." She leaned in, pushed the soft rubber of the mask back and placed her forceful lips on his jawline: Angel's eyes grew large in shock.

"What are you-"

"Shh." His surprise made her grin into the kiss, lips moulding perfectly into the space of the mask. They tasted each other, hungry and passionate, the tension finally slipping to the back of their minds... They stood still; he pushed her against the crumbling wall, a brand new energy in his movements, fine plaster dust clouding around them from the impact. She breathed hard, revelling in his coarse touch. Angel's hands slid down to her waist, and the boss' hands gripped his shoulders with force.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry for everything."

"That's what I wanted to hear," she said, chuckling. "You were right; I regret not going for that bastard too, but the crew comes first."

They resumed the kiss, stumbling out of the room in bliss. This was what they needed; this was their real feud, a game of tongues. Edging down the stairs, the boss let out a shiver of pleasure as the rough man pulled her closer still, bodies mere millimetres apart. She tugged at his hoodie, pulling it up and over his head and tossed it aside, his smooth skin and firm muscles exposed and she sighed in contentment; he was superb. He ran his palms up the side of her body, earning himself another rare demonstration of sensation from the feared woman.

This had gone on for too long. She'd had her fun; it was time to drop it.

"Angel," she said, pulling away. The man struggled to keep the disappointment from his face. He clutched her hand; she pulled it free. "It's a one time thing."

"You're playing with me," he stated, desolate.

"It's for your own good. You're out in the sun!" She waved at the open door, the brilliance of the sun streaming through. "Well, almost."

"I'm going back in-"

"Fuck, no." She grabbed his arm, dragging him outside. He stopped resisting the second the light poured over his half-naked body; Angel de la Muerte had forgotten what it felt like to be warm, to be touched by nature's delicate fingers. Even the boss' wandering hands couldn't compare to the sun...he had a Mexican heart, and the large ball of fire soothed his soul. The freezing, shady gym had made him frozen; he had grown used to the cold, spending weeks drowning in his sorrow, and the warm sunshine lifted him to the heavens once again.

He stood silent for a few minutes, eyes closed, simply soaking up the outside air, the strangely familiar aroma of the city, trimmed in a dull industrial edge and mixed with the boss' expensive 'Bad Bitch' perfume.

"Thank you." Angel didn't have to say much else; the sincerity in his eyes told her how much this meant to him. The boss threw him a simple black hoodie from the floor, which he put on, and she nodded curtly. He clearly had not left the gym in the time she hadn't seen him, and this was his first real leave of the prison.

"Look, now that you're out, the least you could do is come with us tonight. Pierce, Zimos and I were gonna blow some shit up in Espina. We could relocate to Bridgeport, if you wanna work closer to home."

Angel just looked at her. "If you really need me, I'll be at the gym, training."

"Speaking of that dump, I'll send some decorators later - try not to hurt them 'til they're done. That shit don't come cheap."

Angel simply shook his head. "I like the place as it is-" Suddenly, his stomach emitted a low growl.

"Let's go get something to eat," the boss chuckled. "Then I'm taking you to Planet Saints to buy some new gear. What the fuck you been living on anyway, since you didn't get out much?"

"I went out at night," he answered, buckling the seatbelt with a click. "Food was the bare necessities."

"You can start again, you know," she said casually. "You have your mask, your career, and no matter what you think, it isn't shit. You can rise again, you got spirit." His hazel-brown eyes settled on the woman fiddling with the keys in the ignition. As usual, the boss was right. She had drawn him out of his isolation, and now he could perhaps begin living again. The engine of the _Vortex_ roared into life.

"Lucha Libre is a sport which channels honour, a battle fought with pride. You saved it; you saved me."

"So, the shit about being ready to fight with me, what about tonight?" she queried again, a mischievous glint crossing in her eye.

"I'm ready," Angel de la Muerte smiled; the boss noted he looked a hundred times more attractive when he wore that look.

"Good. Know any decent restaurants?" grinned the leader of the Saints, the car shooting down the road into the late afternoon. "Though the places in Stilwater are better. You ever heard of Freckle Bitch's?"

"I wouldn't eat at a place where the word 'Bitch' is incorporated into the title."

"We'll all go back to Stilwater one day; you need to try their Chicken Bazooms!" He stared at her, bemused. "Why the look? You really can't beat their meat!"

Angel laughed quietly; this woman was full of surprises. The fact she had even come to see him was a shock, and her displays of emotion and whiskey-like lips were a welcome revelation. He realised he was glad she had come. God knows what he would be doing if she hadn't.

"Earth to Angel?" she joked, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped back to reality, leaving his thoughts behind. "Should we go to Freckle Bitch's one day?"

"…I'll pass," he chuckled.  
-

**A/N:** _I had so much fun writing this, and it was hard work! The boss is such a flirt, haha; I can't permanently ship her with anyone! Things you can do now include leaving me a review telling me what you thought of this story [it means a lot to me - i__f you liked it, feel free to favourite it too!_] and clicking_ on my profile to read other Saints Row stories I've written. Until next time, adieu!_


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